Chapter Seventeen
Even then, de Courtenay rallied and went on the attack again.
‘You can’t be sure of that!’ he cried. ‘And he’s on Crusade! Even if a Saracen scimitar doesn’t get him, the dysentry probably will!’
‘You do not convince me,’ Josse said coldly.
‘And if he dies, then what?’ De Courtenay took no notice of the interruption. ‘Queen Berengaria means nothing to him, they say, he spends so little time with her that, if she’s to become with child, it’ll more likely be a second immaculate conception! And John has no children — his wife hasn’t been seen anywhere near him since the day they said their marriage vows! I tell you, these ruling Plantagenets have no future! Oh, think, Sir Josse! Put up your sword and let’s talk our plan through!’
‘Our plan?’ Josse shouted. ‘No, de Courtenay! Do not dare to include me in this!’
‘But-’ The handsome face creased into a puzzled frown. ‘Just now, you were — you seemed to-’ His expression cleared. ‘Ah, I see. You were amusing yourself at my expense, weren’t you? Playing me on your line, like a fisherman with a leaping salmon.’
The smile was still there, as wide and as radiant as ever, but, in some all but imperceptible way, de Courtenay’s face had altered.
For the first time, Josse had a tiny glimpse of what lay behind the charm and the affability. What, when he thought about it, he had always known must be there. For this man had tortured and killed Mag Hobson.
What he saw was infinite cunning. And a ruthless, limitless capacity for evil.
But it was there and gone so quickly that it could have been a trick of the light …
When in doubt, take the initiative.
Gripping his sword tightly, gaining a rush of confidence from the familiar feel of it in his hand, Josse said, ‘We have nothing more to say to one another, de Courtenay. I think you should leave.’
‘Leave,’ de Courtenay repeated quite softly. ‘Yes, yes, perhaps I should.’ He gave an elegant shrug. ‘Ah, well, I did my best. We should have made a formidable team, d’Acquin, you and I. But it was not to be.’ He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘A pity.’
He began to turn away, walking slowly, with slumped shoulders, towards the door. Josse, only partly taken in, let his concentration lapse. His brain still trying to assess the implications of that momentarily-glimpsed, alien look that had so briefly crossed de Courtenay’s face, he let the point of his sword drop.
Only by a little.
But it was enough.
Spinning round, his own sword drawn so swiftly that its movement was a silvery blur, de Courtenay was on to Josse.
And there was something else: a vitally important factor which, considering de Courtenay had always been a potential adversary, Josse ought to have noticed instantly.
He was left-handed.
The quick and automatic reactions that came from a lifetime as a fighting man came to Josse’s rescue; his own sword was up again even as de Courtenay launched the first savage swing, and he made contact with the blade as it homed in towards his chest. But the attack came from Josse’s right side, and de Courtenay’s sword, held in his left hand, bounced off Josse’s blade and, as it fell, sliced into Josse’s upper arm.
It did not hurt, not straight away. But Josse knew he was injured, gravely so, by the gush of his own warm blood which he felt flood up from the wound, seeping through his sleeve and beginning to drip on to the floor.
And, more significantly, by the sudden loss of strength in his right arm.
Shifting his sword to his left hand, he rushed at de Courtenay, trying to find the space in the man’s defence, trying to see how he swung, where he left himself vulnerable. He made contact, and a flower of bright blood appeared on de Courtenay’s chin.
But it was a small wound — de Courtenay appeared barely to notice it.
Again, Josse lunged, but de Courtenay seemed to be thinking too quickly for him, so that, whatever Josse tried, whichever quarter he attacked from, his adversary was ready, parrying the heavy sword blows, his own weapon always there to defend him from Josse’s fury.
But Josse was the attacker, that was for sure, and de Courtenay the defender; I must keep this up, Josse thought, fighting the worrying dizziness that was threatening to unbalance him. My only hope is if I keep him on the retreat.
For the alternative — for de Courtenay to gain the advantage and make Josse defend as he attacked — was not to be contemplated.
Josse did his best. But he was losing too much blood. And, although he was trained in the use of his non-dominant hand, he had never had to fight a man of de Courtenay’s vicious determination under such a combination of handicaps.
Slowly, steadily, de Courtenay wore him down.
There was a moment of perfect balance, then, as their two swords unlocked, Josse experienced a split-second’s blackness. He let his left arm fall.
When he was once more himself, it was to find de Courtenay forcing him backwards, sword whistling through the air, aiming for the junction between Josse’s neck and his left shoulder. Gathering what strength and wits that remained to him, he tried to deflect the blow.
And, throwing himself off balance, fell to his knees.
He tried to fight the nausea and the faintness, tried to reach for his dagger — de Courtenay was above him now, he might be able to slide the smaller blade into his belly, or, if not that, then wound him sufficiently to arrest this onslaught …
He slumped forward, sword falling from his hand, his head drooping between his shoulders.
And waited for the end.
After a small eternity, he felt the edge of de Courtenay’s sword kiss against his neck. Closing his eyes, he offered a swift prayer: forgive me, oh, Lord, my many sins, and …
Nothing happened. No whistle of a fast-descending blade, no sudden appalling agony as the blade bit.
He opened his eyes and tried to look up at de Courtenay.
He had drawn his dagger, and, with his sword shifted to his right hand, was trailing the dagger’s point across the bare skin of Josse’s neck and cheeks with his left.
‘A more handy weapon,’ he murmured, ‘for what I have in mind. Not easy, is it, Josse, to slit off a man’s ears and nose with a sword?’
Josse tried to elbow him away but the removal of one of his supporting arms made him fall to the floor.
‘Oh, dear,’ de Courtenay said with mock sympathy, ‘the lion has turned into a kitten! Here, puss! Feel the tickle of my blade!’ Josse winced as the dagger nicked a piece of flesh on his neck.
Then, as if he had abruptly tired of playing, de Courtenay bent low over Josse. He put down his sword and pressed his right hand to Josse’s throat, constricting the windpipe, making Josse’s already blurred sight fail altogether as the blackness encroached. The dagger pressing against Josse’s cheek, de Courtenay hissed, ‘Before I slit your throat, you will tell me where I may find her boy. Don’t try to tell me you don’t know, because I am fully aware that you do.’ The dagger punctured the skin. ‘And, each time you answer my question, where is he? with the answer, I don’t know, I shall slice off one of your features.’
Josse, lying on his right side, tried to find his dagger with his left hand. There! No, no, no. There! No … yes.
His hand closed over the slim hilt.
‘Now,’ de Courtenay said, ‘where is Joanna’s child?’
‘I…’Josse closed his eyes and moaned, faking a rush of faintness; he didn’t have to try hard to make the act convincing. ‘De Courtenay wait, I-’
The dagger bit again. ‘Where is the boy?’ came the inexorable voice.
‘You must let me think!’ Josse cried, ‘I’m so dizzy I can’t get my wits to work!’
De Courtenay’s hand on his throat tightened, and Josse lost consciousness for a few seconds. Opening his eyes again, he found de Courtenay’s face directly above his, and the eyes were burning with a dreadful mixture of furious intent and sadistic pleasure.